


O stay with me, until the Wolves are away...

by oldwickedsongs, scarecrowes



Category: Boardwalk Empire, Dracula (1931)
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Belts, Breaking, Collars, M/M, Mindfuck, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldwickedsongs/pseuds/oldwickedsongs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarecrowes/pseuds/scarecrowes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in an AU where Dracula tires of London to travel to America in the Roaring 20's and disappear in the City's dark streets, unafraid of their wolves.  Except one. The king of them all, Arnold Rothstein. Dracula accepts the challenge of bringing the Man Uptown underfoot like any other creature of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O stay with me, until the Wolves are away...

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at porn without plot. I hope you enjoy. Also Velvel is Yiddish for Wolf and it was AR's nickname as a young man.

AR wakes to the belt pulled like a collar on his neck, being tugged to his knees before the Count. He’s lost count of the time he’s been here, wonders who has noticed and if anything is to be done. His mind moves slower than it should, his body weaken save for the time Dracula forces him to take nourishment. Or his blood. Both have become small battles. Food or milk smeared or thrown and his ribs and face suffer for it. 

He laughs when the blows rain down until he curls mewing into a corner. The only time he still feels sane, whole is when Dracula pushes an open vein into his mouth to suckle and AR hates himself for it.

It’s changing him. He can feel it. Where once he felt a hole, something dark and empty inside of his chest, there’s a lust now. Something rank and ugly that entwines too comfortably around the choked laughter he offers up to the Count with every punishment at his refusal. He sounds like a feral thing. He’s already begun to answer to Wolf again. 

Tonight, the Count entered early- already flushed from feeding and told him there would be a gift. 

AR fought like a terror against him as he slipped the leather belt taunt around his neck. _Not yours. Not yours. Charlie’s._ It’s a litany drumming in his head and he tries in vain to ignore the fact it isn’t true anymore. It hasn’t been true for sometime although he’s still vain enough to reason the scar he carries over what has passed between them has cut its way on his jealous prince. 

_Not yours._ He wants to say but Dracula is already pushing his shirt off, icy fingers against Rothstein’s fevered chest. He refuses to think of Carolyn. He’s purpled and tender in places where the Count has feed previously, or struck him. There’s chunks of skin so bruised it’s black and when handled too inconsiderately by the monster who thinks he’s won AR just flashes his teeth- pearly white and untouched. He knows his rebellion buys him time just as he knows it’s finite. Dracula will kill him soon, or something else. 

He won’t turn him though, AR knows that- or wants to believe it, because perhaps there’s enough of Harry’s brother left to fear for a soul- here, of all places. 

AR screams when the fangs enter the hollow of his shoulder. He has never thought there to be anything heroic about stoicism and although he wants to slump forward- Dracula holds him prone, crushed between his mouth and the arms holding him upright. There’s the bug in his ear, like an incessant drone, _Velvel, come now. It’s for the best. You belong here. You’ve been too long without. It’s time for come home._

AR wills his heartbeat slower and imagines dripping faucets in abandoned homes- drip, drip, drip and gone. This will end soon. Must. Just give in. 

And he is almost gone into his head when there’s a noise from the far off corner. There’s the frighten skittering of a creature trying in vain to go unnoticed. 

That’s right. There was another one. 

“Come , Renfield.” The Count’s voice is dark and warm in AR’s ear. He forgets how his body reacts to it now; the sheer intensity to hear and press closer to it. It makes him sick to his stomach. 

This one reacts no different either because in a flash he’s before them. Renfield’s not a handsome lad but could’ve been once; younger then AR and all gangly limbs. He has a student’s body; lithe and pale. There’s muscles in his arms but only ever used for hauling tomes from shelf to table and back again. His fingernails are jaundiced and twitch occasionally- although never, AR remembers, as they changed his bandages or put the water to his lips. 

His eyes though that’s what gets AR every time, red and not bloodshot. The Count’s will gleam red like a predator occasionally, like a wolf’s when light reflects off of them. Renfield’s seem to remain in a perpetual state of hunger and caution. 

“Undress.” 

The man seems to hesitate, wants to ask why and then denies it although he removes his shirt and undershirt slower then natural. He’s all bones and librarian strength underneath. Paler then AR, with a thin brushing of freckles across his chest and collar. AR finds himself wondering how they taste and then swallows back the wave of disgust that floods him. _They are not his. His pack is elsewhere._

 **No.** …his friends. He’s no wolf. Not anymore. 

“Are you hungry?” The count is taunting them both, seeing who will twitch first. It’s the other Vampire that obeys, eyes darting to Rothstein’s open shoulder and then back to the Count’s eyes dutifully. Dracula barks something in a language AR can’t understand and again the smaller one seems to hesitate but decides his hunger is more pressing.  
Rothstein makes sure he sits up straight backed and impassive- half German pride (why did he think that, perhaps the age and decay of the place he’s in, all ghosts of fallen bloodlines) and half a gambler’s resolution. He is king for a reason, with ice water and arsenic instead of blood. Let them choke on it. 

But Renfield catches him by surprise by the next motion. He turns his back towards him and folds into AR’s arms- icy back scarred from canings or a belt lash. He’s shaking and more instinct then affection makes Rothstein fold his arms around him- a pantomime of comfort they both seem insufficient for. Renfield almost purrs at the touch though, taking AR’s wrist with delicate fingers and finding the vein with his tongue. AR stiffens and grips tighter, anticipating and bracing himself for the next. 

Dracula doesn’t return to feeding when Renfield begins- half purring into the wound he creates on AR’s wrist. He wonders if it’s for practical reasons, to keep him alive or because he gets off on AR’s surrender and the needy pulse of Renfield’s throat as he slurps down the blood. AR pushes closer to Renfield, to rest his forehead on the cool of his neck to avoid the suddenly drum in his skull to bite him. He wonders how the man tastes, wonders at the taste of consistency of blood and it makes AR’s eyes water with want. 

This isn’t him. It cannot be. It isn’t-

And the next sensation sends a jolt of shock through AR’s system, causing him to buck against Renfield in a moment of abandon. It only encourages the creature to shift, cut deeper and send razor sharp pain through his arm and shoulder. Dracula has slipped his hand between AR’s legs, gripping his tumescence and began to rock his hand in slow agonizing rhythm that makes AR want to push against him. He’s too weak to put up any real resistance and too caught between the two of them to go slack between them. He feels himself harden under the care, hears the Count’s brutal chuckle in his ear and swears he hears his voice in his skull. 

Velvel, let go. 

Renfield seems to realize what’s happening too because his feeding relaxes enough for him to push back against his cock. There’s a dull whine that escapes him too, a longing that can match the one Rothstein’s biting back. 

AR tightens his grip as a choked out sob escapes. He tries to shut down, imagining the belt around his neck to be a collar, and tries to fixate on something, anything familiar. Carolyn’s smell; or the way Charlie felt underneath him. She liked to lead his hands. Charlie flushed crimson when he called him, 

“Beauty.” The Count’s voice again. “Enough.” 

AR opens his eyes when Renfield pulls away. His skin is flushed from blood and it makes a greedy stain across his lips and chin. AR’s blood. Everything aches from shoulder to wrist. His skull threatens to break in two. 

“Go ahead, beauty.” Dracula continues, hauling Rothstein to his feet as Renfield kneels before him. This time there’s no pause in his movement, the pursuit of purpose as he takes AR into his mouth whole and teases his head with his teeth.  
 _Enjoy yourself._

“Go to hell.” AR croaks, stumbling back into Dracula’s chest in a futile attempt to free himself of Renfield’s attention. He doesn’t have anything of the crassness the words belong to, not even the quiet rage that is his. He’s too weak for either. Dracula seems to understand that too because he folds his fingers into AR’s hair. The dull pressure pushes into AR’s mind. 

Enjoy yourself, I’m not without mercy.

“AR.”The name is barely above a whisper but the voice is familiar. He hears it. He swears his does. It’s Charlie’s low growl, the impatience demand, a yanked chain that calls his attention fully. 

And his fresh faced beauty looks up at him through heavy lids, his dark face a flush of wild curls and his own want. AR almost sobs at the sight of his boy, hands curling amid the unruly locks and tugging his mouth closer. Charlie purrs at the attention, folds into it in ways he rarely does. It’s like Rothstein’s chest will crack. He feels his heart twist in his chest, even as his muscles go relaxed under the care. Yes, yours. He wants to say. This is how it should be. 

Charlie’s tongue is insistent, and even as AR tries to slow the pace- prolong it because he’s been too long with his beautiful boy, both of them are hungry for climax. He wants to tug him forward too, to split him open and watch Charlie’s face as he comes. 

“Charlie,” AR whines and he yanks him closer, feels himself hitting the back of the man’s throat. “Please…”

It barely takes anything to make him come. AR growls and digs his nails into the man’s scalp as he shakes, caught up in the need and grasping for balance and comfort again. 

The one beneath him drinks him in hungrily, whining and all tight himself. 

“See now?” Dracula’s voice breaks the hallucination as quick as he invoked it. “I can be kind.”

Renfield is looking up at AR in a mixture of pleasure and sympathy. His own hand is working his prick feverishly, and he seems eager to repeat what’s happened. He keeps staring at AR with a knowing, expectant face. 

AR feels like he’ll be sick. 

“Velvel, you cannot keep fighting. No man can.” 

If AR could, he’d tear the monster apart with his bare hands. He feels wild, vicious. Hungry for blood. There’s something ugly and hateful in his chest that only seems to answer to its proper name. Renfield smiles at little at the creature before, in recognition and rolls onto his stomach. AR reaches forward to grab him by the shoulder and brace him.

“You can feed when we’re done, my wolf. It’ll feel more natural from now on.”


End file.
